In Good Hands, Chapter 2
by Jada115
Summary: Continuation of In Good Hands. In this installment, Alan helps Jerry and Miranda helps Denny and Alan  can't say much more without giving away plot . Original BL characters belong to DE Kelley. Miranda/bit parts are mine. Romance. no slash/flash.


In Good Hands

Chapter 2

Meanwhile, across town, Alan met Katie at the Quarter Club.

"Thank you for meeting with me," Alan said, guiding her to a nearby table, carrying their drinks. His eyes raked briefly over her body.

"No problem."

He sat the drinks on the table, removed his coat and glanced at his watch. "I have a dinner engagement to get to so I won't take up much of your time."

"What's this all about? Is Jerry in some sort of trouble?" She placed her coat on the back of her chair and sat down, pushing up the sleeves of her sweater.

"Not at all," Alan said sipping his scotch. "I do hate to interfere, but after my conversation with him, I felt duty-bound as his friend to say something. You cannot divulge this conversation with him because it would destroy our friendship and his trust in me."

"I wonder then that you would take the risk?" Katie said, a little confused.

"Perhaps when I'm done, you will understand and your conscience will guide your discretion."

"Very well. I'm all ears."

"You're aware of Jerry's Asperger's."

"I am."

"And how that contributes to his difficulty in maneuvering certain social and physical situations."

"Yes." She sipped her apple-tini.

"He has expressed a certain interest in taking your relationship to the next level."

Her eyebrows shot up; she nearly choked on her drink. "Pardon?"

"I certainly didn't elicit this information. For whatever reason, he has always turned to me for advice of a particular nature."

"On sex?"

"Relationships more precisely, though it sometimes involves sex." Alan chuckled, "And I have no idea why because my life is testament to the fact that I don't have all the answers."

"Clearly."

Alan smiled, laughing to himself.

"For whatever reason he doesn't feel comfortable telling you because, apparently, around you he feels unworthy, inferior. He has that special trait that all men share—a dreadful insecurity about our ability to please women; not just sexually, but in _every_ way. Inside of us hide scared little boys who want approval from the people we most admire, desire, respect, love."

"Why would he feel that he can't tell me?"

"Because as a man he feels like he should be in control—that he should just somehow automatically know what makes you happy and fulfills your desires."

"Poor Jerry."

He gazed at her steadily. "And I suspect your fawning pity for him causes him some anguish, makes him feel inferior, feel even more like a man-child. While most of us are to some degree a man-child by nature, we do manage to give the appearance of men to the world. Jerry is just learning to do this."

"I do _not_ pity him," Katie said angrily.

"I believe you do, perhaps unwittingly, but you do it all the same. I also believe he senses that."

She leaned forward on the table. "So is your purpose here to meddle in something that isn't your business and to insult me in the meantime?"

"Not at all. I know that because you and I don't know each other very well you are suspicious of my motives. However, I assure you my motives, for once, are purely noble. I seek only to help a friend realize a dream. He came to me, very upset, feeling worthless—_his_ words—about his inability to pleasure you. He wanted my advice because he would like to eventually move beyond the kissing stage."

"Oh dear God." She rolled her eyes. She put her hands over her eyes. "How utterly embarrassing."

"Don't worry, I didn't provide him with any specific techniques, though I've amassed an extensive catalog over the years."

"I've heard as much. Some of the things I've heard about you are quite repulsive."

"Those things are likely true. However, to assuage any concerns or doubts you might have, I have managed to persuade him that he doesn't want to model his burgeoning sex life on mine."

"I appreciate that." She grimaced.

"I suspected as much."

"I'm not a prude, if that's what you're insinuating."

"I'm not at all insinuating that, though it's interesting that you did mention it. And were I not otherwise delightfully attached, I might test those conspicuously uncorrupted waters. However, your prudery, or supposed lack thereof, does not concern me in the least."

Her face grew hot under his brazen truthfulness.

He continued. "My concern is for Jerry. He feels very insecure about his abilities. He has a dream of a wife and children—two things that will never happen until he is able to overcome a particular hurdle—a hurdle you happen to have great control and influence over."

"Dare I ask what your advice was?"

"To ply you and himself with champagne—to take the edge off-for starters."

"You're clearly a romantic," she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

He leaned back and put his hand to his chest. "It has worked wonders for me in the past. However, I also told him that he should let nature take its course."

"So then why are we here, having this conversation?"

He leaned forward and lowered his voice, almost seductively, "To persuade nature that she shouldn't be _too_ patient and understanding; to persuade nature to be more proactive and move things along a little faster."

"And why do you concern yourself with this?"

Alan grew serious, locking his eyes with hers. "Because Jerry is my friend; because he's in a great deal of mental and emotional turmoil and suffering; because he is a good, honorable man worthy of his uncomplicated dreams of a family; because he has a great desire for normalcy and he works hard to achieve that end. I can't think of a better person to help right now. Can you?"

She glanced at the table.

"And since I know you to be a kind-hearted and sensitive person, you must be aware that all this is going on around you, and you've wanted to do something about it, but are at a loss as to how to best handle it."

"You're right," she said, looking up at him.

"And you can't tell me that you aren't feeling the same sort of urgency? That your loins don't ache to be satisfied, that your body doesn't crave..."

"No need to be vulgar," she said, frowning at him.

"I apologize," he said. "I thought I was talking to a fellow libertine."

She blushed. "Why are you trying to deliberately antagonize me like I'm in a witness chair?"

He softened. "Forgive me. But I'm experiencing a certain urgency of my own right now on Jerry's behalf."

She glanced down at her drink. "Admittedly, it can be rather frustrating. But I try to be patient. I try to reassure him all the time that I will wait as long as he needs me to."

He touched her hand with his fingertips. "I think if you become more proactive, moving cautiously and slowly, he will soon over come his anxiety about physical contact." He withdrew his hand and sipped his drink.

She toyed with the stem of her glass. "Honestly, I've thought the same myself, but I've been afraid of pushing him…" She winced. "Of scaring him into an even deeper withdrawal."

"I think those days are over. Jerry _wants_ this and because he wants it he will be more receptive to any overtures you might make—provided you move slowly, respecting his boundaries. But you're going to have to be the one to make the first move, Katie, because he won't."

She nodded, chewing her lip. "Very well." She thought for a moment and then said, "Why are you really doing this?" She eyed him suspiciously.

"My reasons are simple. He's my friend. And forgive my bluntness, but he is also a 42 year old virgin who desperately wants and needs human contact. As such, I would like nothing more than for him to bed a woman—even better if should the woman happen to be one he deeply cares about."

"How gallant."

"And, to spare my dear friend any further humiliation, this meeting between you and me never happened."

She smiled. "What meeting?"

He smiled brightly. "Good." He checked his watch. 7:15. "Now, while I always delight in the company of a lovely lady, I have a most lovely woman waiting on me." He stood and buttoned his suit coat.

She sat back, crossed her arms over her chest and studied him for a moment. "You know I don't think you're nearly as bad as your reputation would have me believe."

He scoffed. "A naïve presumption, but you can believe that if it makes you feel better." He removed his overcoat from the back of his chair and slipped his arms into it.

"I might be optimistic Alan Shore but I'm not naïve."

"Katie, one does not get my reputation without having lived up to it at some point." He adjusted his coat collar.

"Perhaps. Or you might be misunderstood."

He smirked sarcastically. "You're not the first to think that, but it would be wrong to make the mistake of believing it. No one is so thoroughly misunderstood by everyone he encounters—not even me. And as much as I'd love to stay and be psychoanalyzed by someone who knows absolutely nothing about me, my delectable lover awaits; there's at least two loins that will _not _go unsatisfied tonight."

"You're really very crude." She stood.

He smirked and grabbed her coat off the back of her chair and held it open for her. "Shall we?"

He helped her into her coat and tossed a five onto the table.

They stepped onto the street, the wind blowing her hair into her face. "Thank you, Alan, for telling me." She pushed her hair back. "I suspect Jerry would have always kept it to himself."

He nodded. "I believe he would have."

"You're a good friend to him and though seen in a prudential light, I suppose you're a good friend to me as well."

"Good evening, Katie."

* * *

During their ride to the restaurant Miranda listened to Denny chatter on about the various guns he owned and hunting expeditions he had been on with various senators and congressmen. She didn't consider herself a gun connoisseur like Denny. She didn't particularly like guns and certainly didn't own one, despite her family's connection to weaponry. Target practice with her father was little more than a chance to be with her father rather than any real interest on her part, though she did exhibit some minor skill.

More than anything Denny was excited and happy to talk and she was content to listen. She imagined this is what Alan did for Denny. If Denny reminded Alan of lightness and youth, then Alan gave Denny the undivided attention and admiration he so apparently craved. Denny's enthusiasm was infectious. She could see why he was the best lawyer in Boston and why Alan was so devoted to him. In some ways Denny reminded her of her own father—bigger than life personality and boyish charm. She wondered if Denny was something of a father figure for Alan—the father Alan wished he had had. Lying in bed one night in each other's arms, Alan told her about his father—granted he didn't say much because she got the distinct impression that he didn't like talking about his father. But she inferred that Alan's father was an abusive man given to violent rages. She shuddered to think of what Alan had to endure at the hands of one who was supposed to love and nurture him. Perhaps that's why she was content to let Denny do all the talking; it took her to an old familiar place when she was once a daddy's girl, before things at home fell apart, before he fell apart.

The car stopped in front of the restaurant and Miranda climbed out. Denny followed.

She took a few paces and turned to wait for Denny to catch up. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of him slipping and falling full force on the ground, cracking his head against the pavement.

"Denny!" She screamed, running to him.

She fell to her knees beside him. The world around her seemed to fall away from her as if sucked into a giant vacuum. She saw only Denny, heard only her own blood rushing and beating in her ears, felt only the tightness in her chest.

"Denny!" She shouted. "Denny! Can you hear me? Denny?"

He was unconscious.

She bent down over him, checking his breathing. Thank God, he was breathing at least. She checked his head. No blood. People began to crowd around.

The driver jumped out of the limo and ran over to them.

She said to the driver, "Call 911. We need help here now!" _Control the panic. Control the panic. _She told herself. _Keep it together._ Everything moved in painfully slow motion. Her shaking hands felt for Denny's pulse; it seemed strong and regular. She listened again for his breathing. His breath had grown shallow. She checked his pulse again. It was getting weaker. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and flipped it open. She pulled up his eye lid and shone the cell light in his eyes; his pupils were dilated and did not change in the light.

"Oh no, oh no." She jerked off her coat and put it over him.

The crowd was growing larger. Miranda glanced up and shouted at the crowd. "He's going into shock. Everyone stay back. We need space. I need someone's coat. I need another coat now! You!" She screamed, pointing at a man with a thick parka. "Please!" He stepped up, pulled his coat off and handed it to her.

"Thank you." She put the coat on top of him.

She spoke into Denny's ear. "Hang with me! You're Denny Crane," she said. "And Denny Crane is not a quitter."

The driver approached her again. "Emergency unit is on the way, ma'am."

"Good give me your coat too." The driver did as instructed. She laid the coat over Denny. She said to the driver, "Now stand by his feet." She jumped up and lifted Denny's feet about a foot off the ground "Here, hold his feet just like this-no lower, no higer. Hold them steady."

She knelt down again, listening to his breath. Breathing getting shallower, pulse growing fainter. "Come on, Denny. Hold on. Hold on. Help is on the way. I can hear the sirens now. "

Soon the EMTs arrived with a gurney, pushing through the crowd. She explained what was going on and they moved Denny onto the gurney and loaded him in the back of the ambulance.

Joan arrived while Denny was being loaded. "Denny? Was that Denny Crane? What's going on," she said.

Miranda approached her. "Are you Joan?" Miranda asked.

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I'm Miranda Houston, Alan Shore's girlfriend. I'm sorry to be meeting you under these circumstances, but Denny has just had an accident and they're taking him to the hospital."

Joan put her hand to her mouth. "Oh dear."

Miranda continued. "I'm going to follow the ambulance in Denny's limo. Would you like to come with me?"

"Yes, yes."

During the ride to hospital, Miranda called Alan.

The nerves in her body gushed with relief to hear his velvety voice on the line.

"Alan, there's been an accident. Denny…."

"Is he okay?" Alan's voice tightened.

"Honestly, I'm not sure. The EMTs are taking him to the hospital now. Joan and I are following in Denny's limo."

"I'm on my way," Alan said.

* * *

Miranda was in the waiting room, holding Joan's hand, when Alan entered in a flurry. His face was tense with worry and fear, discernable only to her trained eye.

She rose to meet him.

"How is he?" His eyes fell upon her disheveled appearance and the bruises and scrapes on her knees.

"Stable. He's getting an MRI as we speak. The doctor says because of his age and his…mad cow…they're going to keep him at least tonight for observation. She said they would let us know when we can go back to see him."

"What happened?" He said, his eyes watering.

If he started crying she would not be able to maintain her own composure; she never could handle seeing a man cry. She recalled once when her father cried, when his sister died—how he crumpled to the floor on his knees, wailing, sobbing. That night the earth fell from under her. Her dad was always the solid rock, the bold defender of her family; she had never seen the chinks in his armor before that night. Since then she felt as though she walked upon sand. And now, as she stood face to face with Alan's greatest fear, she felt as though she stood in the sand at the edge of the ocean—each wave washing over her feet and rolling back, dragging the sand from under her as it left her behind.

"We were getting out of the car. I heard a sound, something like a loud grunt; just as I turned he was going down. Apparently there was some black ice on the sidewalk. I couldn't get to him fast enough to catch the fall. He was already down."

He studied her. "There's something you're not telling me."

"When he fell, he hit his head… pretty hard."

Alan sucked in his breath and set his jaw. His eyes penetrated her. "Miranda, I sense that you're trying to protect me. Don't. I want all the details."

She peeked around him to check on Joan who stared blankly at the TV.

Miranda swallowed. "Very well. Joan arrived after the fact, so she doesn't know."

"Understood."

"When he went down his head hit hard enough that he went unconscious. Then he began going into shock. His breathing became increasingly shallow as did his pulse. My unprofessional diagnosis?" She rubbed her brow. "He has, at the least, a severe concussion, and at worst—it could be much worse—brain damage, internal hemorrhaging, seizures, amnesia." She crossed her arms over her chest. "The doctor has confirmed my suspicions, but the truth is that right now they just don't know. They'll know more after the tests. I did all I could…" Her voice quavered.

Alan looked at her horrified. Acid rose in his throat.

Miranda hugged herself tighter, suddenly feeling cold.

He collected himself. "Well, that explains your appearance."

"That's the least of my concerns. I'm just glad he…you know." She took in and released a deep shaky breath.

"You must have been terrified."

"I'll deal with that later. Right now I'm just so thankful." Puddles formed in her eyes. She looked away and up at the ceiling. She told herself to remain strong. She couldn't believe this was happening right now. She was already emotionally strung out after her conversation with Denny, memories of her father, then the accident, seeing Denny lying on the cold ground—and now this! She wanted to comfort Alan and knew he needed it, but she couldn't handle the emotional overload. She sucked in her breath and tears stung at her eyes again. "I'm okay." She put her hands on her hips, trying to breathe.

He moved to hug her. She stepped back a little. "Please don't." She said, fighting the emotion. "If you hug me, I will fall apart. I can't fall apart right now. I can't."

He set his jaw, his brow furrowed, dropping his hands to his sides. He put one hand on her arm and said, quietly, "Why don't you go home, get cleaned up, get some dinner. I'll wait here."

"I will—after I see him. I just need to know…"

He nodded. "Okay. Come, let's sit." He loosened his tie, preparing for a long wait.

The three waited together for what seemed an eternity, sipping weak coffee from styrofoam cups.

When Miranda saw the doctor, a short gray woman, she whispered to Alan, "That's her."

They all three stood and met the doctor.

"Ms. Houston, Ms. Prescott…" the doctor looked at Alan.

"Dr. Rosenthal," she said, shaking his hand.

"Alan Shore," he said, "Mr. Crane's friend and colleague."

The doctor nodded. "Your friend is fine."

They all exhaled at once, chuckling anxiously.

"He has a class 3 concussion, but the MRI is clear of any additional trauma. He's, of course, bruised a little from the fall and broke his left wrist. We want to keep him tonight just as a precautionary measure." She put her hands in her lab coat pockets, "At this time, we don't expect to perform any surgeries, nor are there any signs of complications…yet. Sometimes complications may take hours or days to develop." She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. "Chances are, if he can get through the next couple months without any complications, he's in the clear."

"A couple months?" Alan said surprised.

"Yes. It's a long time, I know. But the brain is a delicate system and takes a long time to heal, if it heals at all. So once we send him home, please keep a close eye on him. Look for signs of confusion, dizziness, fatigue, irritability, restlessness, memory loss, fainting—or anything else that seems unusual."

"Can we see him now?" Alan said.

"Sure. Come with me."

They followed the doctor down the hall. She talked as she walked with them. "It's possible he might be a little groggy from the pain medications, but he's well. Here he is," she said, stopping at a room. She walked into the room. "Hello, Mr. Crane, how are we this evening?"

"I'd be better if I knew where I was. Who the hell are you?" He grumbled.

"I'm doctor Rosenthal. I'm observing you for concussion and I set your broken wrist. You had a bit of a tumble, lost consciousness and gave us quite a scare."

He looked at the faces surrounding him. "Am I dead? Is this my funeral? I always pictured there'd be more. And where's Sarah Palin? I thought for sure she'd be at my funeral. Have we eaten yet?"

Alan smiled.

"You lost consciousness for a while, but you're anything but dead, Mr. Crane. Your MRI is all clear, your vitals are returning to normal. You're going to be fine," the doctor said. "You have Ms. Houston here to thank. Had she not been there things might have turned out very differently."

"Lost consciousness? You mean I passed out? Baloney. I haven't passed out on a woman since 1978. And there's no way I would pass out on that one." He pointed at Miranda. "Besides only girls pass out." He linked his hands across his stomach.

"I'm afraid you did pass out Mr. Crane. In fact, you went into shock and Ms. Houston prevented it from turning into a much worse situation," the doctor said.

"Any mouth to mouth?" Denny asked.

"I don't think so, Mr. Crane," the doctor added. "That usually isn't required when the patient can breathe on his own."

"Well, it can't hurt! Here," he shifted. "Try it again." He pursed his lips.

Miranda looked at Alan. "He's fine."

Joan stood on the other side of the bed. "Hey sugarplum," she said.

Alan and Miranda looked at each other. Alan mouthed, "Sugarplum?" Miranda suppressed a laugh behind her hand.

"Joan," Denny growled lasciviously. "There you are my little Hot Tamale. C'mere give daddy a kiss."

She giggled and leaned over to kiss him. He reached through the rail on the bed to goose her. She jumped.

"Denny Crane," she said playfully, "You rascally devil."

"Ha! Ha!" he laughed.

Miranda turned to Alan. "Now that my mind is at ease, I'm going to go home to get cleaned up. I'll come back with some dinner. What would you like?"

He placed a hand on the small of her back. "I leave it to your capable hands. You're familiar enough with my tastes."

"I'll hurry."

Alan sat in the chair next to the bed and, smiling, watched Denny and Joan reunite.

* * *

Within a couple hours Miranda had come bouncing in, carrying a bag. She wore jeans and a sweater, her hair tossed in a messy ponytail. She set the bag on the bedside table and pulled out four Styrofoam boxes. "I hope no one minds steaks and baked potatoes. Joan, I got yours well done. She passed a box to Joan."

"Thanks sweetie."

"Alan, I know you like yours medium rare."

"I do. How did you manage all this?"

"It's what I do best." She winked.

"I can testify to the contrary," he said, running his eyes over her jeans as she leaned over to pull out another box.

She pulled out another box. "This one is for me." She sat the box in a chair near Alan.

Denny looked longingly at the bag. "You wouldn't happen to have another one of those would you?"

Miranda smiled mischievously, reached into the bag and pulled out the last box. "I do; it's medium rare. I hope that's okay."

He wiggled excitedly in the bed. "I don't care as long as it's not hospital food."

She placed it in front of him and opened the lid. "Oh! I stole us some steak knives too."

"That's my girl," Alan said.

She handed a steak knife to everyone then stood at Denny's bed side, cutting his steak in little pieces.

Alan looked up at her, admiringly.

Miranda tucked a napkin in the neck of Denny's hospital gown then sat down to eat her food.

After dinner, Miranda insisted Joan take the limo back to get her car and then send the driver home, since she wanted to stay a little longer to watch the eleven o'clock news with the boys.

When the news had ended, she stood. "Well fellas, I'm tired. I'm going home. But I want to leave you with something." She reached in the bag and pulled out two glasses and bottle of sparkling apple cider. "It's not scotch, but given that at least one of you is on some powerful painkillers, the scotch would be a bad idea." She poured some cider in the glasses and handed it to them. "And finally..." she said, pulling two wooden cigars out of the bag. "Courtesy of Jerry."

Alan chuckled.

She handed each of them a wooden cigar

"Wood?" Denny said. "I've already got all the wood I need right now. I need a real cigar."

"Too much information Denny," Miranda said.

Alan laughed.

She said, "I know you're disappointed that it's not the real thing, Denny, but smoking inside the hospital is kind of illegal and potentially dangerous with oxygen tanks and other explosive and flammable materials lying around."

She put her hand on Denny's shoulder. "Get some rest." She kissed his temple. "There are playing cards and Hot Tamales in the bag too."

Denny looked at Alan. "She's a keeper."

Alan stood. "I'll walk you out," he said. "I'll be right back Denny."

* * *

Alan escorted her down to the hospital lobby.

He placed a lingering kiss on her forehead then pulled back, looking longingly in her eyes, smoothing her hair. He blinked rapidly. "I'm forever in your debt." He swallowed hard. "If you hadn't been there…." He clenched his jaw tightly.

"Don't. I don't want to…" But it was too late. Tears swelled in her eyes and a couple escaped down her cheek. She quickly swiped them away. "Cry," she said, slapping him playfully on the chest.

He placed a gentle kiss near her eye and whispered in her ear, "_When friendship or love our sympathies move; when truth, in a glance, should appear, the lips may beguile, with a dimple or smile, but the test of affection's a tear._" He then pulled away and looked warmly, deeply into her eyes.

"Only you would quote Byron to me," she said quietly. "It's not even his best work."

"That's all I know of that particular poem. Read it once in college, has always stuck with me. Nevertheless, thank you… my friend."

"Friend? Wow. That means a lot, coming from you."

"I'll hail you a cab," he said. "But first…" he put his arm inside her coat, around her waist. "I wanted to say…" he pulled her close, "I think I really like your casual wear—the jeans especially. Maybe we can convince the partners to start casual Friday."

She chuckled. "Is that really what you wanted to say?"

"There's more."

She looked askance.

"I like the messy ponytail too."

"Well, I'm glad you got that off your chest."

"It had been weighing on me for some time."

"I suppose you're spending the night here tonight?"

"I am."

"So I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Yes." He paused. "I can't possibly thank you enough for…" his voice caught; he swallowed and shook his head, briefly unable to meet her eye.

"You would have done the same."

He regained his composure. "I would have tried, but the truth is that I wouldn't have known what to do. If it had been only me with him…he might not…"

"Don't be so hard on yourself. I've been trained."

He inhaled deeply and looked off to the side.

"Maybe you should take a first aid/CPR class…just in case you need it sometime?"

"I suppose I could do that… or…" His eyes met hers. "I could just make sure you're always around." He smirked.

"But what happens when I'm not?

"Are you planning on _not_ being around?"

"No. I've already told you that I'm not going anywhere. But I can't possibly be with you twenty-four-seven, Alan. You're sophisticated enough to know how unrealistic that is. Besides, I know you—such an arrangement would never make you happy."

"I'm not particularly suited to happiness anyway."

"Nevertheless…"

There was something like guilt or sadness in his gaze.

"Are you okay?" she said.

He nodded and lifted a hand to gently stroke her cheek. "I have a confession," he said.

"Oh?"

"I've told you about my last…attachment."

"Tara?"

"Yes."

"What about her?"

"She and I had a…code for expressing certain…sentiments."

"Such as 'You smell good?'"

"Yes. I want to apologize for using the same phrase with you. But I just felt compelled to let you know…yet I couldn't say _the _words." His face was marked with anxiety and tension.

She shrugged. "No worries." She tried to appear nonchalant.

He released a nervous scoff mixed with laughter.

"Until you can manage the right words maybe we can come up with our own code, if that helps."

"What would you suggest?"

"How about something similar like 'you have great hair' or 'I like your smile' then someday you can work up to a phrase that's closer to the point like 'I heart you.'"

He smiled. "You _do_ have great hair." He smoothed his hand over her ponytail. "I can really sink my fingers into it. I especially like to feel it trailing down my chest and stomach when you …"

"Travel south?" She smiled coyly.

He laughed. "Yes." He removed the clip from her hair and dreamily watched it fall over her shoulders. He smoothed it into place. "I _really_ like your hair a lot," he said. They kissed gently, passionately while he ran his hands through her soft, smooth tresses.

When they pulled apart she said, "I need to go so you can get back to Denny."

"I'll hail you a cab."

They walked to the street corner where Alan hailed a cab for her. The taxi pulled up and Alan stepped to the rear of the car, opening the door to let her in. He closed the door after she climbed in. They waved to each other, and he stood on the street, watching, until the cab disappeared among the steady stream of cars.


End file.
